Sometimes I Hate New York for the Same Reasons that I Love It

I was waiting for the G train 20 minutes ago after shopping at Trader Joe's, and a stranger sitting next to me remarked that all the people on the bench, three of us including him, were rapturously snacking from our Trader Joe's grocery bags. "We can't even wait until we get home!" he said. We laughed. I let him and the other woman sample my cinnamon-sugar pita chips, which are amazing and lame at the same time, and the woman sighed and said, "Yes, I could get addicted to these." (She was eating an apple.) We got to talking about grocery stores and how there aren't any in Bed Stuy, where they both happened to live; I know nothing about grocery stores in Bed Stuy, but I recommended Choice Market anyway (thank you, Emily's extremely resourceful Tumblr). We also talked about the Park Slope Food Co-Op, which I irrationally don't like, though I didn't say so, and how the price and spread for nuts and cheese there are the best almost anywhere. It was kind of a fun conversation! Three F trains came and went. We were midconversation when the G finally showed up, but as if on cue, abruptly, we stood from the bench and loaded the train using three separate doors of the same car. We sat down in different sections. They each began listening to their iPods and I started scrutinizing the eczema on my arm. It's almost like we were embarrassed by what had just happened, except that we played it so cool. I tried to wave goodbye when I deboarded, but they were looking into their laps, deaf by music, and didn't notice me feebly trying to get their attention.